


My Mother The Hearse

by DisappearingMuse



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, because i'm too avant-garde for my avant-good, i'm always down for experimental narrative styles, yes hello we also have an omniscient narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisappearingMuse/pseuds/DisappearingMuse
Summary: After years apart, the Bluth children reunite at Lucille's funeral.





	1. Lindsay

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeyyyy readers! I'm planning on releasing one chapter a week. There are 4 total, one from the POV of each child, and together they function as a complete short story. Also, this was conceptualized before 5b aired, so there are a few plot points from 5b that I chose to ignore for my own sanity.  
> Thank you for giving me your time, and I hope you enjoy this!

It was the first time the Bluth family had been together in years, and they were arguing.

Lindsay's voice rose above the rest. “Well, who else has the balls to give the eulogy?”

Oh, right. The family minus two. The last time they could be found within ten feet of each other was two years ago at George Sr.'s funeral. They should have made this decision much earlier, but a combination of denial and their lack of forward thinking, two things that ran in their DNA, led to them doing it here, standing in a circle in the middle of a church. An odd venue choice, since Lucille had only prayed about twice in her life. Classical music skittered in between bits of conversation, bouncing off polished marble floors, wreathing around Roman columns, smacking the high ceiling. Locked in their own world, none of them heard it.

They turned to Lindsay. Her outfit, a black dress embroidered with roses and topped with a fishnet veil that obscured her face, stood out among the others' plain suits.

“You don't even have balls,” said Gob.

“Beside the point! You can't imagine how many speeches I've made in my life-”

“Gob's right,” Michael cut in. “I think it should be him.”

Lindsay glared, betrayed, before she caught on. Gob just wanted to be asked. When the responsibility became real, he would shy away from it.

Gob's eyes lit up. “Really, Mikey?”

“Really.” Michael's stony expression gave nothing away.

For a horrifying moment, it seemed Gob would take the opportunity after all. His gaze skipped from the podium at the front of the room, back to Michael- then fixed on the ground. “I don't think so. Yeah, no thanks.”

Michael considered. “Well, we all know who she loved the most.”

In unison, they turned to Buster, who stared into space with red-rimmed eyes. Age had done the strangest work on him. Though specks of gray cropped up in his hair, he still curled in on himself like a child, flesh hand and prosthetic clasped at his chest.

He snapped to attention, pulling at his collar. “I don't know...”

“Right,” Michael said. “What was I thinking.”

Gob whispered to Lindsay, “Can you imagine what that speech would be like? 'Mom had the hottest butt I ever saw in my-'”

Lindsay shoved him aside, staring Michael down. “Guess it's between us.”

“How about we all vote?” George Michael suggested. They startled at his voice, having forgotten he was there. No one volunteered him, and he was secretly grateful. He was still squeamish around illness and death. Though he felt guilty about it now, he hadn't come to see Gangy right away, using the approaching deadline at the tech company that had hired him down in Phoenix as an excuse.

“That hasn't turned out so great historically, buddy,” Michael said, not passive aggressively at all. He ran a hand over his face, sighing. “She'd be so proud of us, fighting over her.”

The words settled over everyone like an incantation, exorcising the bad energy. They all visibly relaxed, and the circle staggered apart, the ritual complete.  
Lindsay smiled sadly. “You know what? It should be you.” Who had they been kidding? This was the only possible outcome.

“You're sure?” Michael asked, because it was the nice thing to do, and Lindsay insisted. It hadn't been his intention to weed everyone else out. He had a feeling the task would fall to him in the end, and though he didn't want it, this was for the best. He could actually be trusted with it.

This would be when the family would make up, say it had been a petty thing to argue over, and here of all places, that they should have considered who Lucille would have chosen instead of vying for themselves. They would hug. But they weren't a hugging kind of family.

Gob wandered off first, giving everyone else silent permission. He went straight to the casket, bowing his head and whispering- a sight the others would have found strange had they been watching, because prayer was a foreign language to him. George Michael found Maeby, and the two of them caught up like they had never been apart. Lindsay returned to Tobias, whose claimed his grief was taking on the form of overeating, as he'd spent the entire day at the buffet tables catered by bounty hunter Ice. Unable to be still, Michael left to see if there was anything else he could do in preparation. Buster glanced around, lost, and finally located his wife at one of the round tables in the back.

(I know. I'm just as shocked as you are. We'll come back to her later.)

The pulsing sea of black suits pulled the four children back in, washing away any trace of where they stood before. The guests were members of Lucille's country club or the upscale women's prison she'd had a brief foray in. People who feared her and came out of obligation, people who came out of pure curiosity over how someone so immovable could possibly bow to death- no friends. They walked around with anorexic martini glasses and squat vodka shots, the culprits that destroyed her liver.

Lindsay was scolding Tobias for taking the last cheese square when someone recognized her voice and approached. “Lindsay Bluth?”

Lindsay did not recognize her. This was partly because her vision was broken up into a spiderweb of black thread and partly because she hadn't seen this woman in years.

“Mrs. Pattinson,” the woman supplied.

“Oh!” Mrs. Pattinson belonged to Lucille's country club. She'd slipped Lindsay curly fries under the table when Lucille refused to let her have them. Lindsay loved those fries.

She threw her arms around Lindsay, unaware that the Bluths were not a hugging family. “Oh, my dear. I'm so sorry.”

Lindsay patted her back stiffly. “It's fine,” she said, as if the woman had done something as inconsequential as knocking over a glass.

“Your mother was such a wonderful woman,” Mrs. Pattinson cooed. “Such a joy to have known.”

 _Your mother._ No one outside the family knew the truth. Lindsay never bothered to correct them; she still felt like Lucille's daughter. “Mother” was the word that popped in her mind when she thought of her, anyway.

“Thank you.” Oh, please. No one had ever described Lucille as a “joy.”

Lindsay immediately felt guilty for the thought. Why couldn't she be overcome with grief like normal people?

It was probably better that she wasn't giving the speech. As she tended to do, she got so caught up in the heat of the debate that she forgot why she wanted what she was fighting for in the first place. Now that all was silent, conflicting reasons shouted for attention in her brain. She indulged the fantasy of everyone's eyes on her as she stepped up to the podium and ripped off the veil, baring the face Lucille had criticized to the world and cursing her out. She imagined recounting memories that painted Lucille as a saint, so people would compliment her eloquence afterwards. Or maybe none of that would happen, and she'd just say all the words she never got to, words that wouldn't leave her alone. She didn't know what the truth was anymore.

* * *

The house was silent when Lindsay came home. A calm silence, not a creepy one, although later she never remembered that part, because it made no sense.

She called out to see if she really had the place to herself. No one answered. Finally, a moment alone. Tobias and Maeby were always running around, and Lucille came over once a week- in fact, now was normally around the time she arrived. Much as she complained, though, Lindsay enjoyed these visits. For the first time, she and Lucille were really talking, not playing games. Lindsay got to talk about her marital troubles, and Lucille...actually expressed human emotions. She admitted she was lonely, still coping with the aftermath of losing George Sr. and not having Buster around as often.

Lindsay threw down her purse triumphantly, and it vomited its contents onto the living room table. Overwhelmed by the freedom, she decided the best way to celebrate was to make herself a drink.

She stepped into the kitchen to find Lucille passed out on the floor next to a vodka bottle.

Lindsay wished she'd started to be concerned then, but her first thought was that Lucille wanted to teach her a classic Bluth lesson. Her mother's alcohol tolerance was off the charts. She had never once passed out from overdose.

Lindsay settled her hands on her hips. “You can stop it now.”

No response.

“Whatever I did, I'm sorry.”

Lindsay was sure that admission would break the spell. Still nothing.

“Mom?” A note of panic rose in her voice. She knelt down, lifted Lucille's wrist. A slow pulse. Too slow.

Lindsay's voice broke. “Mom, I get it! This isn't funny! Mom!”

She ran back to the living room, scrambling through the ruin her purse left- so many things she didn't need. She tossed them aside until she finally unearthed her phone.

-

  
The doctors said Lucille would be alright. They said a lot of other things, too, wrapped up in medical terms Lindsay did not understand and couldn't regurgitate to her siblings when she called to tell them what happened. Gob and Michael said they would come as soon as possible, and Buster didn't pick up. She ran into them all separately; their schedules wouldn't cooperate, and none of them bothered, because that would make this a big deal, and it _wasn't_ a big deal.

The ease with which they used to talk evaporated in the sterile hospital air, although Lindsay visited every day. Her nerves frayed when she opened to door to find the two of them were alone today. She sank onto the edge of the hospital bed. Once it had been the reverse- a young, feverish Lindsay under the covers, Lucille laying offerings of cough drops and water at her feet, trying not to touch her.

“Where's Buster?” Lindsay asked. When he finally did arrive, he hardly left his mother's side.

Lucille waved her hand like she could bat the question away. “I sent him off. He was smothering me.”

They didn't want to argue or talk about what happened, so that exhausted their conversation. Lindsay rippled the sheets in between her fingers, unable to stand the silence. Snapshots cycled through her mind: her purse on the table. Lucille on the floor. The ambulance pulling up to her driveway. Still, she didn't want small talk. She wanted an apology. About anything, really, Lucille could take her pick. The comments on her weight that warped what she saw in her reflection. The criticisms about her parenting and her charity fundraisers. Surely it had to be on her mind. Dramatic experiences like this made you reflect on your life, put your regrets into sharper focus.

Lucille sat there with her hands folded. If the doctors allowed her, she would probably have a vodka in hand, even now. She didn't look sick or pained or sad or scared. Lindsay was all of those things.

“You want something from me,” Lucille said. Lindsay was so used to her sounding accusatory that at first she didn't register her playful tone.

“No I don't.” Lindsay couldn't ask for what she wanted outright without giving the impression of groveling or blaming. She could imagine the response: _I almost died, and that's what you're thinking about? You selfish, spoiled brat._ No, she had to lead Lucille to the conclusion like a horse around a pen.

The horse was determined to walk in circles. “Oh, please. I can tell.” That was true; she could always smell an impending favor on people. “It's money, isn't it? It's always money.”

“Mama-”

“I don't know why you bother. You'll get plenty of it once I'm in the ground.”

Lindsay flinched. “Don't say that!”

The children had fantasized about it when it hadn't been real. Divided up her belongings, lusted after the inheritance. It felt treasonous now. She couldn't imagine a world without Lucille. What was the point of raising money if she didn't have someone who disapproved of the charities it went to? What was the point of staying with Tobias, if not to piss off her mother? Who would talk to her in the middle of the night?

“What am I supposed to say, then?”

“Was it on purpose?” Lindsay asked.

They both faltered, the horrible words falling between them.

Lucille leaned like she might touch Lindsay's hand, then seemed to think better of it. “Of course not, dear. Someone needs to be here to keep you kids from wrecking your lives.”

Lindsay went home already preparing her next visit. She'd make up for the awkwardness next time, do something traditional, bring flowers, say “I love you.” Maybe that would convince Lucille to return the favor.

That was the last time they spoke. She was loading a giant vase bursting with lilacs- her mother's favorite- into her car when the doctor called to give her the news.


	2. Buster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back this week for #TimeToBeSadTuesdays :)))  
> As of now, the uploading schedule will stay the same. The remaining chapters have already been written, they just need heavy editing!

The consciously quiet murmur in the room was too loud, the attendees' steady movement too fast. Buster bounced his knee under the table. He always got nervous when separated from his mother for too long. Apparently his body hadn't registered that he was never going to see her again.

Feeling his leg jitter against hers, his wife looked up at him, her eyes full of concern. The noise around him muted a little. Her presence always comforted him- he'd even gradually stopped having night terrors when they started sharing a bed.

(Right. I suppose I should explain that.)

This was the woman the family knew as Lucille Three. Surprisingly, she was ten years younger than him, and she looked nothing like Lucille- a shock of bright red hair, a thin and lanky form, clothes from the dollar store. Unsurprisingly, she worked as a nanny. Lucille Bluth, having learned her lesson that Buster never did well unattended, hired her to look after him while she was going out of town and returned home to find her tucking him into bed and giving him one hell of a goodnight kiss- something she hadn't stopped doing for three years.

She reached for his hands across the table. “Shh. Deep breaths.”

Imagining he could feel her fingers threading through the ones on his new left hand, a delicate ivory one like a china doll's, he smiled weakly at her. He loved when she held his prosthetic hand. Everyone else was so freaked out by it, and she hadn't even flinched the first time he touched her with it.

He tried syncing up his breath with hers but found himself distracted, glancing towards the jewel-studded coffin. (Lindsay picked it out, thinking both she and her mother would appreciate it.)

"What do you need?" Lucille Three asked. "Do you want to sit outside with me?"

She startled as he leaned forward in his chair and whispered to her.

“But honey...this isn't open casket.”

“I don't care,” Buster said. “I need to see her.”

He never got to say goodbye. When Lucille first entered the hospital, he only left her side to fetch her whatever she needed. That white room became a makeshift heaven. For once, she had only praise for him. _My beautiful boy. You've been so good._ Over the years, he became addicted to every little compliment, savored them like grains of sugar. Without her criticisms to temper them- although he was addicted to those, too, in a twisted way he couldn't explain- this was nauseatingly sweet.

Until the day she wouldn't even let him through the door and yelled at him to get out. He begged her, then begged the doctors, but they always insisted she didn't want to see him. It drove him crazy wondering what had changed and whether she'd lost her mind. Then she was gone, and it all made sense. She hadn't wanted him to be there when it...happened, knowing what it would do to him. He took the news the hardest out of all the kids. The first few days, he hardly got out of bed. He wouldn't have eaten if his wife hadn't propped him up and spoon-fed him soup.

Lucille Three still looked uncertain. “Do you want me to come?”

Buster nodded, and she held out her arm to steady him as they crossed to the front of the room. Lead still weighed down his body, stuck in his lungs when he breathed and concentrated in his legs when he walked. Once he got close, his heart clawed at his chest. He couldn't remember why he wanted this just seconds ago, but surely everyone was watching, preparing to spring and call him a coward. (Nobody was.) He propped the lid open a sliver, feeling like a child spying from behind a doorway. Shadows stared back at him. Hands shaking, he opened the lid- and screamed. People turned, saw what he was doing, and sympathetically averted their eyes.

Lucille Three said, “That's not...”

The man in the coffin put a finger to his lips.

Maybe it was the shock, the buildup of emotions, the relief he didn't have to go through with it, delirium- Buster started to giggle for the first time in weeks, and then he couldn't stop. Lucille Three smiled despite how odd it all was, hugging his arm tighter. It wasn't long before his eyes glazed over again, but she would take any little moment.

“Uh, hey,” the man in the coffin whispered. “Can you shut the-”

Buster closed the lid on his words.

* * *

Buster sat with Lucille Three in between his knees, rubbing her shoulders. His flesh hand drew precise circles, his prosthetic making clumsy strokes. It felt scandalous doing this on his mother's couch. Were she here, they'd be five feet apart. _I don't need to see that_ was her mantra around them. If only she knew the half of it! They had the freakiest- and best- sex he'd ever had in his entire life. She made him call her “Mommy.”

(I am sincerely sorry you had to hear that.)

Lucille Three's shoulders suddenly tensed like springs crunching up. “Why does your mom still hate me?”

Buster's hands stilled. He'd wanted a quiet night specifically without this conversation, which kept reviving itself despite his best efforts to ignore it.

He understood his mother's original resentment. On what was supposed to be their last night together, Lucille Three leaned down to give him a goodnight kiss on the forehead, and he shifted _ever_ so slightly so that their lips _accidentally_ touched. That must have been a shock to walk in on. But it had been three years since then. In all that time, Lucille had only passive aggressive comments and judgmental glances for her.

“I don't understand,” Lucille Three went on. “I've tried everything. I've been nice to her. I've practically groveled at her feet.”

Hearing her grow more distressed with each word, he dug deeper into her shoulders. “I don't care what she thinks, Lucy.” He used to try insisting Lucille was just protective. That never worked.

“Baby, it's okay.” She shifted onto his lap to look at him. “You do, I can tell. I don't blame you, I cared what my parents thought.” No worries there. Her parents, afraid she would never settle down, were relieved when they heard the news. Her previous partners all left her with the same complaint: _It feels like you're my mother._ “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring this up again. I'm just afraid of losing you.”

“Oh, you won't lose _me_. You know it's you I was always worried about.” When they first started seeing each other, he had a terrible certainty that the broken parts of him would inevitably become too much for her. That every day they walked in the park or she stayed up late with him telling him stories about her childhood, he fell harder and the possibility became scarier. The first time he had a meltdown in front of her, he was sure she would leave him, but she just handed him her least favorite plate to throw against the wall and told him she loved him for the first time.

“Buster, no...” Lucille Three was silent awhile, deep in thought, then heaved a breath as if steeling herself. “Okay. Okay. I wasn't going to do this until I got your mother's approval, but...”

She got up- then knelt in front of him, pulling a small brass ring from her pocket. For a second, Buster couldn't breathe, but for once, it was a good kind of not being able to breathe.

“Does this convince you that I never want to leave you?” she said.

This was happening. This was really happening. He'd thought about proposing a million times before, but he never had the courage, was sure she'd say no. He still couldn't speak.

“Oh my God. Am I moving too fast? Am I-”

Buster slipped his finger through the hoop, laying his palm flat on hers. The idea came to him bright and clear like a prophecy, and he didn't bother to think it through. His voice came out so loud and confident he didn't recognize it. “Let's get married right now.”

It was her turn to stare in disbelief. He didn't blame her. Neither of them made impulsive decisions.

He started grinning uncontrollably. “Mother won't even know about it. There's got to be one of those- those religious guys-”

“A priest?”

“-a priest around somewhere.”

“I never did like big weddings...” His smile was infectious, spreading to her.

Within the next few hours, they were married at the church across the street, him in his white suit and her in a blue dress she yanked out of her closet. He gave her a candy ring he got out of a vending machine on the way. Afterwards, they shared a cake slice from the grocery store and got home at 3 AM, giggling from the adrenaline.

Lindsay's call went unnoticed until the next morning.

-

“Where _were_ you?” Lucille demanded when Buster burst into the room, shoving the doctor out of the way and running to her bedside.

What was he supposed to tell her? That he eloped with the woman she hated? That he just had the best night of his life, and now he was here? The guilt was so palpable it had to show on his face. Perhaps the divine really had been listening last night, registered that he'd made a final choice between her and Lucille Three, and now they were punishing him for it.

“It doesn't matter.” He knelt beside her, squeezing her hand like he used to when he was little. “What's wrong? What can I do?”

She swatted his wrist. “Buster, stop it. I'm fine.” Feeling cold metal against her skin, she glanced down. Buster tensed. In his panic, he forgot to take the ring off.

Lucille should have been furious. Instead, she felt relief. She wouldn't be around to take care of him forever. Lord knew someone had to, and Lucille Three was the only one she could trust. She was short with the woman not because she hated her, but because she _wanted_ to hate her. Wanted a reason to justify that she was wrong for her son, but all she could see was how Buster looked at her so gently, so lovingly, how his whole posture relaxed around her. She never thought she would have to choose between her son's happiness and keeping him close to her, because those things had always been linked until now.

She had to give that little redhead bitch her blessing.

“She's a very lucky woman,” Lucille said.

Buster blinked. She must have hit her head when she fell.

Lucille tried to let go of his hand, but he whimpered and held it tighter. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she stroked her fingers over the ring.

He never understood why she changed her mind, and he didn't ask for fear it might break the spell. As far as he knew, the hostility just vanished like a miracle. Maybe divine intervention had been on his side after all.

In just a few days, Lindsay would call again. Lucille Three would come home to broken glass hailed all over the floor, furniture upended, and Buster sitting in the middle of it, rocking himself and sobbing. He wouldn't notice the blood striping down his shoulder until she bandaged the wound with gentle, practiced fingers and kissed the spot. He would crawl into her arms, clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him together. She'd wish this were like before, when she could soothe him by telling him everything would be alright until whatever was wrong went away, but this wouldn't go away. All she could do was promise _I'm here, I've got you,_ and hold him long after the wooden floors pressed bruises into her knees.

 


	3. Gob

Full rows of pews. Lucille would have been happy.

So was Gob. Having so many eyes on him as he stood behind the podium fed a starving piece inside him, and his heart fluttered in familiar pre-show anticipation. Innocent things, they had no idea what was coming. (Except his family, tucked in the third row. The same thing had happened both at George Sr.'s fake funeral and his real funeral years later. They'd come to expect it and knew trying to stop him was fruitless.)

He grabbed the microphone, and it screeched in protest. The audience moaned and shared confused glances, his usual response. He raised his hand like a lecturing preacher. “Today we are gathered here to honor my dearly departed mother, Lucille Bluth. She has left us all behind and traversed our earthly world into another one. And yet sometimes, I can't help but wonder if maybe...in some way...she's still with us.”

Nothing happened.

Gob raised his voice. “I said, I can't help but _wonder_ -”

The coffin's lid creaked open, lifted by a single gloved hand, coughing glittery blue smoke into the air. Screams broke out, everyone's animal brains convinced the paranormal was at work. Posed precariously on its hinges, the lid fell again, and the front row heard a muffled male voice: “ _Oh dammit fuck.”_

Maybe Gob had oiled the hinges a little too much.

The lid burst open once more, and the man inside sat up. “Did someone say _wonder?_ ”

The only sound was Michael muttering to George Michael, “Well, that was in poor taste.” Unfortunately, the audience was filled with the older generation, who did not recognize Tony Wonder. But Gob didn't hear the silence. All he could see was the second thing that made his heart flutter. Sure, they had been together long past a honeymoon period, and yet...he had been with so many other people, but it seemed you never really forgot the first one who actually mattered. Gob outstretched his hand to pull Tony out of the casket, and when he took it, their matching rings clinked together like tiny champagne glasses.

(But wait. Wasn't their rule “just hands?”)

It started at just hands. Then congress convened to extend the provision to tongues and teeth. Then talking for hours afterwards- complaining about their families, trading magic secrets, adding to the endless list of things they had in common. These meetings were supposed to be secret, but everyone knew. Michael and Sally Sitwell got so fed up with having their offices used for illicit purposes that they decided to team up one last time to get the two of them together. They arranged a fake business meeting at a restaurant, and Gob and Tony soon realized they had been set up on a date.

It was what they'd wanted all along, but neither of them knew how to communicate like human beings. Not unless it was scripted, not unless it was cloaked in flashing lights and pouring smoke. This was the push they needed. Eventually, Tony proposed he and Gob do a show together- then proposed for real in the middle of it, materializing a huge, glittering ring out of thin air. It was Gob's first standing ovation.

Tony's heels hit the floor. Gob drew a shot glass from his sleeve as Tony said, “And though we can't raise the dead...we _can_ turn this vodka into water.”

 

* * *

 

Gob regretted coming to the hospital.

When the others were here too, he could piggyback on whatever they did and said. Alone, his brain froze up. The two of them made an effort not to be together under normal circumstances. What were they supposed to talk about now?

As soon as he sat at her bedside, though, Lucille leaned towards him, employing a honeyed tone. “Gob? Will you be a dear and do something for me?”

He couldn't turn her down while she was in this position. “I won't be a dear. But I'll do something for you, I guess.”

“Oh, thank you. Go get me some alcohol.”

“ _What_?” He should have known. Of course she just wanted something from him.

“Don't shout! I have a headache!”

Gob's heart twinged. He recognized the withdrawal signs like looking into a mirror. He still wasn't a hundred percent clean, doubted he ever would be, but his automatic response when things got hard wasn't to reach for a drink. “Mom, I can't do that. That's what got you here in the first place.”

“You already promised me.” She sounded like a petulant child, robbed of all her power.

“That was before I knew what you wanted me to do! Look, it sucks now, but it goes away eventually.” What alternate universe was he living in, giving her advice?

Lucille looked like she was actually taking in his words. Then she said, “How would you like to be my third least favorite child?”

He shouldn't care. He didn't care. Not one bit. She was just bluffing. It wasn't worth it.

Gob returned the next day with a single drop of white wine splayed out at the bottom of a shot glass. A meager compromise, a peace offering.

Lucille groaned. “You're a bastard.”

“I just did what you asked.”

She yanked the glass from him and downed it, then handed it back to him. “Dispose of the evidence.”

Gob slipped the glass into his pocket. “Well, at least now you know I don't want to murder you.”

“I suppose I do.”

She lapsed into silence.

“You know,” she said finally, “you're not so bad.”

-

Michael got the house, Lindsay the extra furniture. Maeby pilfered Lucille's jewelry to sell. Buster took her perfume bottles and her clothes. And Gob?

_To my firstborn, the plastic turkey on the kitchen table,_ the will said. She was probably drunk when she wrote it, thought it would be a hysterical joke. To be fair, he nabbed one of her scarves that looked pretty cool. He got his fair share of the money, too, but he blew it within a month. It was fine, though. He was fine.

Gob sat at the kitchen table in the apartment he shared with Tony, beer bottle in hand, staring at that stupid turkey. It had been years since he'd drank this much, and it was going to his head so fast he could imagine he was a lightweight. A forget-me-now would be better, but what was the point? Someone would remind him eventually. Besides, he threw his stash out. He'd stopped wanting to miss any moment of his life.

Obviously, he'd been this upset when his father passed away. But why his mother? She never supported his career. She pitted the other kids against him. Lucille hadn't disapproved of him and Tony, but she'd never been exactly supportive, either. The only thing he could remember her saying at their wedding was “Look what the homosexuals have done to me” after they threw a celebratory fistful of glitter that happened to land on her face.

“Hey, so, my mom died,” he said when Tony came home. Matter of fact. Like a weatherman. He even shrugged.

“Same- wait. What?” Tony searched Gob's eyes for a sign he was setting Tony up for a prank. They traded them weekly- a confetti explosion from the showerhead, a dead dove in place of a bagged lunch. He could always tell when Gob was bluffing; there was a special glimmer in his eye. It was one of his favorite things about him, if he were forced to choose. It wasn't there now.

“Are you okay?” Tony asked.

“Just fine.” Alcohol swirled in Gob's brain, manic, still not enough to wash out the thickness in his chest. He needed a more effective cure. “Let's celebrate.”

Gob pinned Tony to the wall, pressing their lips together. Yes. Just what he needed. The first time he had sex with Tony was the first time he didn't break down crying afterwards, because he didn't feel bad about himself; it hadn't felt wrong; he actually wanted to be there in the morning, and the morning after that, and after that, so much that it scared him. Gob's hand traveled under his clothes, over his stomach...further down...

Tony writhed away. “Gob, stop. This is wrong. Your mom's, like, dead!”

“So? She didn't love me.” He'd thought it ever since he was a child but never voiced it. That gave it new life, somehow, even though he'd been dragging it around for so long. _My own mother didn't love me. Wow. That's pathetic._

“That can't be true,” Tony said uncertainly. “Everyone's mom loves them.”

“It's okay. You can say it. She was a bitch, wasn't she. A total bitch.”

“...Yes?”

Gob leaned in to whisper something even worse, but different words spilled out of his mouth. “I think I killed her.”

“You _what_?”

“I didn't mean to. I gave her some alcohol the last time I saw her. She asked me to. It was just a drop. I thought it would be fine. But then- then she- she- sh-”

Tony gripped Gob's shoulders, rubbing them. “Hey, shh. You say you gave her a drop? That wouldn't have made any difference. I swear.”

“I'm not a murderer?”

Tony kissed his mouth as if to wipe any trace of the words away. “You're not a murderer.”

Gob watched him through hollowed eyes. “Okay. I like that. But why did she ask _me_? Why not any of the other kids? Michael I get, he would never. But Buster would do anything for her. Lindsay would cave if she said the right thing. Why me? I bet she wanted to blame me if anyone found out.”

“My dude, it wasn't some big conspiracy against you. It was probably just chance, whoever was there.”

Gob's knees buckled, and Tony threaded an arm through his, helping him to the couch. Gob slid down against him and would have flopped over in half like folded paper if Tony hadn't held him upright. For a long time, he watched Gob's eyelids flicker, wondering what was going on in his brain.

(Thankfully, _I_ know.) Gob was hearing Lucille's words over and over, a disjointed lullaby. _You're not so bad._

He would take that.

“I miss that bitch,” Gob muttered before he fell asleep.

 


	4. Michael

Tony Wonder's grand entrance left an unsettled energy hanging over the crowd. Good. If Michael bombed the eulogy, it wouldn't be the most egregious thing to happen today.

He'd only half paid attention to the trick, trying to come up with what to say, jotting things down only to scribble them out. Bad memories were easier to recall. Whenever he came up with something nice, it sounded like a veiled criticism. Such a responsibility, closing someone's life with words you could only hope they would appreciate. But that wasn't the only reason he dreaded the speech. He was afraid to leave this room, depressing as it was, because when he did, that would be it. His mother would be dead. The family would disintegrate for real- and for once, he wasn't ready for that. It wasn't his choice this time; he always told himself he was the one holding the family together, but now it felt like it had been Lucille all along.

Gob and Tony bowed and returned to the audience to pattering, uncertain applause. Cursing under his breath, Michael shoved his scrap paper into his overflowing pockets. Whatever came out of his mouth would have to do.

As he approached the podium, memories of another funeral reeled in the back of his mind. A woman he once held in his arms in the casket; a child, too young for this, clinging to his pants without fully comprehending what was happening. He cleared the images from his head until all he saw was the audience staring up at him, their expectations too high- he was Michael, how could this possibly go wrong?

“What to say about Mom?” He choked the microphone, fixing his gaze on the back wall. “I legitimately...don't know what to say about Mom.”

Gob and Lindsay concealed grins. Maeby gave him a thumbs up. The insult was lost on Buster; he teared up, and Lucille Three reached for his hand.

“Mom was...she just was. She was all we knew- we had no better or worse mothers to compare her to.”

The audience stared in disbelief. No, this was _worse_ than Gob's trick. He considered putting the mic down before this got any worse, but words kept spilling out.

“Good memories of my mom. Yes. I have them.” His mind blanked, and he seized the first thing that came to him. “I was eight, I think, and we were sitting on the porch. I'd just gotten some bad news, a bad grade or something- and all of a sudden this seagull walks past. Uh, we were at our beach house, I should have mentioned that. And she goes, 'That's an ugly seagull.' It made me laugh so hard I forgot all about it. She would never have said that- she actually loved the seagulls there. But she said it for me.”

(Riveting.)

“What I'm trying to say is, in her own twisted way, she always put family first. She really did love us.”

Gob and Lindsay looked up.

“She just never said that outright- she tried to tell all of us that in the only way she knew how. She always thought she knew what was best for us, and sometimes she was wrong, but sometimes she was right. She lied to us and manipulated us, but sometimes, it was to protect us from the truth. The last time I saw her, she told me she was fine, she wasn't all that sick, she'd be home in a few days. I wish- I wish I'd been able to help her. That I could have stopped her. That I really could have turned her vodka into water, or whatever. But she was too stubborn. She wouldn't have listened to me.”

His voice hitched, and he stared into the hypnotic wood circles in the podium, composing himself. “She never was a believer, but you know, _I_ believe she's probably looking up at us right now. Yes, up at us. From hell.”

A few stifled gasps.

“And she's showing the devil who's boss.”

Michael slipped back into the crowd so he could pretend he had been part of it all along. They clapped for him with more certainty than for Gob and Tony, at least.

Over the next hour, the guests offered their condolences and drained out of the room until only the family remained, left to clean up. Michael watched them when he thought they weren't looking. Strangely, Lindsay and Maeby were the only ones actually working; they rolled their eyes as Tobias bumped into the stack of chairs they'd just put up, knocking them over. Gob and Tony did their part by sharing the last remaining crackers from the food tables (and then sharing a kiss he quickly looked away from, because it soon got quite inappropriate for a funeral.) Lucille Three was teasing Buster for wiping his nose on his sleeve, making him laugh despite everything. Despite his lack of help, despite how fate was supposed to treat people like them, they all looked happy, like they belonged somewhere.

And what about him?

“Dad?”

He startled at George Michael's voice. His son stood awkwardly behind him, reminding him of the boy he had once been. Michael hadn't expected him to stick around, figuring he wanted to spend all his time with Maeby.

“I think Gangy would have loved that speech,” George Michael said.

Michael smiled sadly. “I think so, too, buddy.” He almost stopped there, left things the way they were, the way he wanted them, but he'd spent too long ignoring what he didn't want to see. “Look, this is a little out of the blue, but if you want to find a better job here, stay with your family, I'd understand.”

“Huh?”

“I don't want you to stay in Phoenix just for me.”

George Michael shook his head. “No, no, I'm not. I want to be in Phoenix. I don't like the person I am when I'm around them. I love them and all, but I never really belonged with them. You know?”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“But at some point, once I'm financially stable, I'll have to move out.” The words rushed out like he'd been wanting to say them for a long time and finally had the courage for them. “No offense, but I can't live with my dad forever-”

“That's alright with me. Can't have you turning into your Uncle Buster.”

The two of them shared a smile, and for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel forced.

Once everything was cleared away, they converged at the entrance, standing in a broken circle. Lindsay broke the taboo and hugged him, whispering, “It's not your fault” so quietly he could have imagined it. Gob slung his arms around him, crushing his lungs. For once, he didn't stop Buster from massaging him hard enough to leave a bruise. God, his body would be messed up after this.

Afterwards, they just stood idle, waiting for him to tell them what to do despite their years of defiance. They had been sneaking glances at Michael when they thought he wasn't looking, too, wondering what would happen next.

Michael could walk away from them now. He could be done with them forever.

“We'll keep in touch?” he asked.

Lindsay huffed. “Oh, gross, I have to talk to you again?”

She broke into a smirk, and he lightly shoved her shoulder. “I'll call you next week.”

* * *

Phoenix, Arizona. Where the dirt was red velvet and dusty sunsets caked the air. Where Michael could have the quiet life he always wanted. He and George Michael stayed in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere, refreshing after the lavish model home. He got the feeling George Michael wasn't completely happy. He probably missed Maeby, although they never talked about her. Just thinking about the two of them together made his skin crawl.

And Michael wasn't happy either. Something was missing. He just couldn't admit what it was. In all those years, he only saw his family once, during his father's funeral, but they were unlike themselves; they treated him like a stranger, exchanged normal pleasantries, and didn't ask anything from him. It unsettled him. He'd grown so used to hearing voices clambering for his attention, feeling like he was a saint among sinners instead of an ordinary person, having a purpose consume his life. He filled the void with work, with women he met at bars who never lasted long, but in the stinging quiet of an insomniac night, the silence had a grating sound of its own, a humming nervous energy.

Two years later, his phone rang and Lindsay's name popped up on the screen, and the nervous humming stopped.

It had to be a mistake. Her fancy new jeans had butt dialed him or she'd chosen his name by accident. Michael waited for her to hang up. The ringing only grew shriller. As he picked up, he told himself it was just curiosity- what could she possibly want, and why now? But there was a strange tugging at his heart that he hadn't allowed himself to feel since he left. He missed her the most. He could have real conversations with her, laugh with her the way he couldn't with the others.

“Michael.” Static rent her voice. “You have to come home.”

What had he expected? “Wow. No 'how have you been?' No 'are you okay?' This is exactly why I-”

“Michael.” He realized it wasn't static. “Mom's sick. I don't know what to do.”

His heart stopped. “Wait, wait, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

As she poured out an explanation, Michael pulled out his suitcase from underneath the bed and began tossing things into it. “Lindsay, listen. I'll be on my way as soon as I can, okay? You're strong. You've got this.”

He left a note for George Michael and took the staircar north. It rattled down open roads where cacti stood in for mile markers. In the darkness, he felt like a tiny scrap of metal pulled towards a much larger magnet.

-

In Michael's last memory of his mother, she was snapping at the doctor. Normally he would have chastised her, but it comforted him- at least some sense of normalcy had returned to his world. The doctor saw him and left, clearly glad for an excuse to get out.

Lucille raised her eyebrows. “So, he decides to show his face now.”

“I really need to teach this family some social skills. 'Hello' is fine. 'I missed you' would be great.”

“Well, then, hello.”

Michael sat at her bedside. The seat was warm, as if a family member had just left. Good. The idea of her sitting alone in this room prickled at his nerves. “So what happened?”

“Oh, they're worried over nothing. All I did was fall. I'm not frail. It's even boring me to talk about. You tell me what you've been doing in that godforsaken place.”

Amazingly, she listened to him without cutting in once. He talked for so long that he put himself in a trance and the words just rambled out, and she fell into one, too, enraptured. He told her about the seabirds there, dates that went horribly wrong, days he and George Michael spent together. He lied that he loved it there, that it was perfect. _But I did miss you,_ he was about to say when the doctor poked his head back in to tell them visiting hours were over.

“Have they told you when you can come home yet?” Michael asked as he was leaving.

Lucille shook her head, not fully focused on him.

“Well, you tell me when they do. Because you're coming straight home. And we're never keeping alcohol around the house again.” He had a plan, and the universe would do as he said.

“Michael,” Lucille said as he turned to the doorway.

He looked back, and for a moment all he saw was slats of sunlight through the open blinds. He squinted past it, to Lucille sitting tall in her hospital bed. The two of them shared a look that communicated more than they could ever say.

“Right,” he said. “I'll close those blinds.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who encouraged me to write this way back when it was just a few paragraphs called “The Sad Thing,” especially the Blunder Bus and my lovely IRL friends <3 I'm going to miss writing this so much, I really hope you enjoyed it!


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